Now
by rocksfalleveryonedies
Summary: One last night before everything changes. This fic is based on the song "Beneath A Moonless Sky." Erik x Christine, rated M for smut in later chapters. Please read and review!
1. 1

**Author's Note:** Hello everyone! :)

This fic is based off the song Beneath A Moonless Sky, but I took a bit of liberty with it. I did my best to keep true to the original characterization, while still following the song's lyrics. If you haven't heard the song, I'd advise you do that first. Please read and review!

I'll be frank: it's rated M for E/C sex. Don't like it? Don't read it.

_"And now?"  
"How can you talk of now? For us, there is no now..."_

_

* * *

_

The thoughts surface as they do every night; mirrors always make her think of him. Memories float to her out of the glass, and she watches through eyes she always manages to imagine aren't her own. This night, as she fumbles with the clasp of her necklace, she doesn't push them away.

The year has passed quickly; an onslaught of long nights and candlelight and music that seemed empty, somehow. All that remains of that day are fragments—Raoul's wrists, raw against the ropes, or the way he cried to her; the caustic echo of familiar chords; the fear in Erik's eyes, transcending even the bloodlust and the hurt. His breath on her lips, his eyes closed—though deep down they both knew that it wasn't love, it wasn't even pity, it was simply _selfish_. The fleeting spark and crushing emptiness of their kiss—the most jagged shard of memory by far—was a nightmare in dreams, the shadow of scar tissue and something unexplained.

She sighs and pulls the necklace off. _It's no use thinking through it all again_—the past is the past, and nothing will change now that she has chosen. She turns away from the mirror. Her nightgown swirls around her ankles as she crosses the room, bare feet on cold floorboards. A quick breath of air suffocates the flame of her candle.

The sky past the windowpanes is eerie; the four flawless squares of midnight make her shiver.


	2. 2

He waits impatiently for the candlelight to die. It isn't fair, he knows, but he needs another glimpse of her—another breath of her sweet scent, another word to remember her by—the truth, from her sweet lips…he will not believe anything else. The feeble light sputters out, and darkness fills its place.

His hands find the door handle and turn it silently; he slips into the room, following the shadows to her side.

The memories of her grasp him and won't let go. His cold hands against her warm skin, frightened and inviting... Her entrancing voice echoing through the crowd, perfect and ghostly, singing the songs he himself had penned—songs of love and beauty, just for her. Something in him wrenches sorrow from the sediment of memory; he can _sense_ her, sitting there in the darkness, and he wishes to forget for the thousandth time. _I need to know…_

"Christine," he whispers breathlessly, and she recoils.

"Who's there?" she asks, brusque words withering the radiance of midnight.

No answer is offered; he closes his eyes, though he sees no less. The timbre of her voice is perfect, a soft gold glow of something he can't explain—life, perhaps, or liveliness—and the fear in it makes him smile despite himself.

"Please," she entreats, which draws sandpaper laughter from his satin throat.

"Hello, my dear."

"Erik?" There is an edge of panic in her voice, a hint of amazement—she doesn't know what to do. "Erik, is that you?"

"Of course it is," he murmurs.

She stands up slowly, the rustle of her nightgown almost echoing, and steps forward blindly. Her hands brush his lips; her fingers find the corners of his mask and press gently. "But I thought…we all thought you were…"

"Dead?" He jerks his head away from her prying hands. "I'm as alive as I ever was," he tells her dryly, as his fingers slide down her arms and—she shivers—down to her delicate hands, searching for her ring finger. Proof comes in the shape of a diamond, the cool touch of gold, and he does his best not to be devastated. "It's true, then."

She pulls her hand away guiltily. "Yes," she whispers, and the words sound bitter even on her lips.

"When is the wedding?"

She hesitates; the silence tastes like betrayal.

"I deserve to know," he reminds her; inevitable anger rears its ugly head. H_ow could she… how _dare_ she... _though he knows he has no right to blame her for his choice.

Softly, she admits, "three days."

"Raoul is lucky." He laughs bitterly. "And you're sure of this? Sure of him?"

The question strikes a nerve, and he can tell. "Why are you here?" she asks him, trying to sound brave; he can feel her shaking.

"But surely you know, my dear." He steps away from her, faces the window and the dark perfection beyond it. "I'm back for one last _pathetic_ moment with you, _Christine_." Her name is an accusation. "Before you left and forgot every song, every word I told you…"

"I couldn't forget you," she assures him quietly, running a soft hand over his shoulder.

He interrupts her: "that is not what I said." The coldness in his voice is absolute, and he takes another unforgiving step away.

"But it's true, isn't it?" she murmurs, so softly he thinks he is imagining—perfect fairytale words, from the angel's tongue. _Impossible._

"You tell me," he answers, feigning apathy; his voice is a stale teasing semblance in the shadows, frigid and inaudible.

He can imagine the churn of ghosts in her bracing blue eyes, a thousand thoughts snarling themselves into doubt. She exhales slowly. One word struggles through the mire, hesitates behind her lips before taking flight: "yes."

The floorboards below his boots creak as he turns around. She is much too close to him—their breath is tangling in the air, weaving into some betraying beast. Lust. The word is a dull explanation for electricity; the fantastic impulse is teasing him, monstrous and ruinous and _wrong._ Her fingertips burn like embers—_she can't, I shouldn't_— her lips, so close to his—_you_ _promised_—and vulnerable—_you can't let her_—wanting—_needing—_

"Raoul," he wants to croak, an explanation, but he can't force the word out. He can't stop her, though he knows he should; he can't stop himself.

The kiss is over before he realizes what has happened.

"Erik?" she breathes. The question seems helpless in the darkness, stark and shorn and shivering. He is certain that the sound of his own name has never been so enthralling.

And the only answer he gives is, "come with me."


	3. 3

She follows him without hesitation; the choice has already been made. One question leaves her lips, however: a breathless "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere…" but the words are evasive. _Somewhere else because…because this room is suffocating, and… _He licks his lips and settles for, "somewhere they won't find us."

He knows at once that she understands; the pretense is gone, the secret is no longer, and the foolish wish is all consuming.

He remembers the curves of hallways by heart, even in shadow. A few doors drool light into the hallway, sticky rectangles of warm ichor, and he makes a point of walking in front of her. Her foolish curiosity, those prying fingertips—that would be the end, he knows, and no chance of redemption would follow. So he leads her by the wrist, never turning back to face her, feeling her quickening pulse and pretending not to notice, not yet.

He pulls the door open silently and a rush of cool air engulfs them; she is shivering again, but he is almost certain that temperature has nothing to do with it. The night is like no other—the sky is the deepest possible shade before blue becomes black. It surrounds them, ground and sky, startling and infinite. All he can see are blurry shapes, different tones of darkness.

_Blind_. The word is breathtaking.

And his other senses open up—for lack of color and hue, for lack of sight. Trees reading incantations, whispering short curses and soft blessings; the mechanical din of insects, living and dying unseen; the hesitant rustle of her ghostly gown, and his own eager breath. His nose is filled with the clean smell of grass, the musk of wet earth, flowers somewhere far away—and sweet perfume on pale skin, mesmerizing. The shadow of her kiss withers on his lips, saccharine, and he wants another taste.

He pauses a moment and stops, judging distances in the dark—_far enough_.

For one awkward moment, neither of them moves; neither of them knows what to do. He waits for her to reconsider, gives her one more chance to come to her senses and break his heart. She hesitates, and for a moment he is sure she will take that chance.

But her lips find his again for a timid kiss, so much softer than five minutes before—the lust pulses below uncertainty, waiting for encouragement or reproach. _Ought to say no, ought to go back…_

_But I won't. Maybe I can't._ A smile surfaces on Erik's face, something small and twisted and broken. He pulls her forward, presses her down—his hips against hers, delicious felony, and another swift kiss.

Her hands brush his chest like moth wings, drawing maps over muscle and bone. The first button of his shirt is freed—he thinks once more of stopping her, sending her back to the drafty bedroom and the gathering shadows and a perfect wedding in three days' time—_ought to, won't_—the thoughts die without grief as the shirt falls around his shoulders, completely undone. He pulls it off gracelessly; her hands continue their cartography, warm like summer across his winter skin.

"Christine," he murmurs, and it feels natural despite the silence.

His heart pummels his ribcage, a childish attempt at escape as his hands go against his better judgment. He finds the laces of her nightgown and—the smile slithers off his face, replaced with something solemn and nervous—his inelegant fingers untie the ribbon, revealing porcelain beneath.

The thrill of it jolts a confession from his lips: "I love you."

He doesn't mean to say it, but it happens regardless; he knows better, at least, than to expect a reply. _A thousand things may have brought her here, but love cannot be one of them. _Yet she doesn't stop him, and _that _is her answer—her skin makes him bold, and his hands make her certain.

He sheds his clothes like snakeskin, lying back in the damp grass and pulling her closer—the electrifying feel of her warmth on his bare skin, every layer of armor stripped away. Her breath comes in tantalizing gasps. She gives him another fleeting kiss, and broken words soar from his mouth without consent: "Are you… can you? Is…"

She knows he wants permission, and the answer comes without an instant of hesitation. "Yes," she whispers, and the conviction in her voice is almost scary—almost.

Ten fingertips touch her skin and pull back, as if they have been burned; a myriad of emotions tug at the pit of his stomach. A tense pause claws at the euphonious gloom.

He wants all of her at once, every inch and every promise, but a final sort of terror comes crashing in waves. She is an angel—to kiss her is to clip her wings, to touch her is to bring her down to hell—but raw _need _acts for him, tracing his hands where her wings would be, drawing shivers from her skin. He puts the fear away. Fear is for later—after—regrets can be delayed. For now, her flesh and her smile and her song will be his.

There are no more thoughts. There are only actions and reactions and the chemical rush under his skin, pulsing through his veins where the music ought to be.

The hunger is building; a raw sort of need begins to swell. His hands glide lower—the architecture of her collarbone, the symmetry of ribs—he expects retribution every second, but it never comes. _Audacity_. The world is blind; there is nothing beyond the darkness and the feel of lace and fingertips.

Softly, slowly—his hands caress everything they shouldn't, and her breath catches in her throat. The desire presses its way to the surface, commanding his blood; all other thoughts are eclipsed. She slides her hands down his chest, leaving knife-edge trails of tingling nerves, and his whole body tenses as the soft curious fingers—_can't be, angel_—find his groin.

He wishes for the first time that he could see her eyes. He _needs_ to see the fire and fear and permission and hunger, needs to be sure they are there—because he knows what is next, and she knows, and words will do no justice.

He hesitates for one ungainly moment, praying to a God he barely knows. _Praying for correctness in sin,_ he realizes, and the compulsion to laugh has to be swallowed back—

His heart stops, her breath hitches, the world is frozen—and the deed is done. He waits for her to cry out, but she bites her lip; all that escapes is a breathless, startled gasp. The screams, he knows, are just below the surface. His hips meet hers—awkward friction, awkward proximity—and a curse rises in his throat like bile. _Hurting her_, he warns himself, _don't—_

He pulls out quickly, waiting for a kiss and a second try, one last breath of midnight air; he closes his eyes, though it makes no difference. Everything is dark.

This time, something goes right. Something primal rises within him—he shows her what to do and she responds—they move together, frantic hands and febrile skin. She utters some indecipherable moan, and he realizes he doesn't _want_ to know. Whatever name is on her lips, it isn't his.

His pulse picks up speed, sweat beads on his skin—the awkwardness of it melts slowly into something else, something he can't find a name for. Expanding in his chest like hope, buzzing like excitement, deep in his core and building pressure… A forced smile surfaces on his lips, serpentine—he can't help it—a smile for desire slaked and fates decided. _I am here, with her—I am inside her—I am—_

He cries out at the sudden swell, suddenly unbearable. Her voice rises with him, some gruesome toneless song—he can imagine her grimace, perfect doll teeth, and the swirl of regrets or rapture or the barbarous name on her lips.

Her moan rises to a howl, and the miracle is finally understood—"Erik," she is exclaiming, "Erik!"

And his angel sends him soaring.

Something close to pain, something white hot, and blooms of color blur around the edges. Through the pleasure there is everything, strange and stunning things—every right answer—delectable transgression, bliss in poor choices, impulsive—he can't breathe. Her breath on his shoulder, heady and humid, distracting—a heartbeat—_hers or mine?—_and something in his veins, _blood or poison,_ a song in his head—music—_Christine_…

Thoughts come tumbling out half-formed—he asks for forgiveness and confessions and eternities—traitorous words, barely coherent, that she answers without shame. They spin lies out of ecstasy, content to be angels, creatures of the night on soundless wings.

Then they are mortal once more; the fading sensation is a shadow, left only with traces of rapture. He stares into the polished empty sky—_yes, it's true, it happened…_ The memory of it—every nerve swearing by a different story, branding them into his mind—it would last forever, too fiery to fade—the _feeling_ of it…

He turns for one last soft kiss, but he doesn't receive one. Her fingers find the edge of the mask—the dressing over a wound, the quarantine of ugliness, a symbol of everything wrong—her delicate fingers pry the mask away from sweating skin, and he stops cold. _No._

An instant stretches itself out of context, full of acrid things and stale fear and some lingering stab of _betrayal_. He imagines the dance in her eyes, whirling emotions he can't see or sympathize with. He doesn't know how to react—he can't think of a single thing to do but let the instant stretch on a little longer, wait and see what brusque words she would say or keep inside. All he feels is the breeze on newly uncovered skin.

Hesitant hands, treacherous now, trace the imperfections; careful lips brush the ugliness and retreat.

"Christine?" he asks finally, timid beyond his control.

"Erik." Her voice is soothing and the answer is simple; she needed all of him, just as he needs everything of her.

A tension he hadn't noticed is released. Every imperfection is unveiled and yet she sees none of it—_blind_—she knows him as he's never known himself, whole and strong and handsome.

He moves closer to her, oblivious to the cool touch of grass against his feverish skin. Sounds are dampened, thoughts are muddled—the world begins to slip away, and he makes no grappling effort. Sleep is inevitable. His hands finds hers and grasp them carefully, savoring the touch; by morning, he knows, the enchantment will be gone, but in that moment—_now_—she is still his.


	4. 4

Shame. That is all he knows; he can taste it, feel it in every fingerprint. The memories are dreamlike, but the shame is as real as anything can be. _Christine_…

She sleeps beside him, curled up in shadows, one delicate hand still entwined within his. For the first time, he is glad he can't see anything. The whisper of her lips, the curls of brown hair across green grass, the tainted lace of underthings—it would have killed him to see her there. His tarnished angel, her beauty fractured by his very name.

"Oh, Christine…"

He strokes her hand gently; a new wave of shame paralyzes him at the cool touch of her engagement ring, the sharp corners of diamond promises. Long before that night, she had made her choice. The sudden terror of realization is gripping and absolute; s_he is not yours_.

She would never wake, he knows, still as blind to imperfection as midnight made her; there would be no promises on her tongue. The real words will be stark and brutal compared to the soft ones of fantasies—foolish dreams—foolish and impossible!

He doesn't want to imagine what gossamer lies she will commit to; what indestructible truths will live on in her eyes, beyond doubt. Everything he has done, everything he is—the ghosts in nighttime are more than enough.

_She is an angel and I am a monster; nothing will change that._

He had dreamed of her a thousand times, dreamed of the feel and the taste of her, of taking everything she would give. Never had he dreamed he would feel so ashamed—guilty, ugly, poisonous. He never dreamed of what would follow the triumph, and yet he knows what he has to do.

He stands up as soundlessly as he can. The ghost of a kiss reaches her lips, the shadow of a hand brushes her cheek, and he flees.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, and the darkness steals the words as soon as they are confessed.


	5. 5

A cloying light gathers at the horizon, like a bruise on the edge of the sky; the darkness lifts in layers. She opens her eyes as the memories surface—absolute truths in a new world of nonsense. He loves her. And, she has discovered, she…

She is alone.

_I should have known._

She almost admits the words to empty air, the startling perfect words she needs to tell him—words he needs to hear—but he is gone. Her mouth is kept closed, a grim line, a stony jaw. And she knows the confession will never be heard. Now that he has left, it is too late.


End file.
